


Oblivion

by Berenbos



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 01:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21091196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berenbos/pseuds/Berenbos
Summary: Mulder and Scully are coping with the Syndicate being gone in a way neither of them could ever have predicted. Now that the madness is over, what is left for them?





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> Written for: smilingoceanlover, whose spooky word was ‘madness’. I thought long and hard about how I was going to use something as complex as madness in as little time as a 5k fic. Then I remembered: the things that have happened to our favorite spooky duo are mad enough in and of itself. I hope you’ll like it!
> 
> This fic was inspired by either another fic or a prompt that I read a couple of years ago, and recalled during a sleepless night, but I cannot - for the life of me - remember what it was or who came up with it. If you happen to recognize this premise, please DM me so I can credit accordingly! 
> 
> Special thanks goes to my beta readers Cate, Laia, Katherine, and Shayna, and to Nicole for organizing this event!

FEBRUARY 6, 1999. 02:33 A.M.

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON D.C.

It wasn't _ that _cold. And rum was the best coat anyway. She’d mixed it with Coca Cola to mask its dirty flavor. She wasn't ever going to pretend that she liked it but it had done the trick. The alcohol had gone straight to her head and clouded her overactive brain... Always contemplating, always remembering.

She recalled the faces of the old, white men. One by one. They looked like grandfathers. Clean-shaven, old-fashioned grandfathers who lived in big, white colonial houses with colorful gardens. Straw hats and hedge shears. Greenhouses, aviaries, and beehives. Lemonade by day; Giorgio Armani outfits by night.

Did their families know of the secret lives they'd led? Were they aware of the fact that they'd spent a great, big chunk of their time traveling on the Potomac Railroad, overseeing women like herself?

Scully didn't know their names. She had resorted to creating nicknames instead. After all, there wasn't much else to do whilst being constrained to an operating table for four months. The names had been coming back to her throughout the years, in dreams or during sharp, all-absorbing flashes when she was wide awake.

_ The Well-Manicured Man_, a Brit. He had helped her in the past, had given Mulder the information to make it to Antarctica. He sacrificed himself for 'the greater good’. He’d commented that she was “younger than the others”, to which the Elder had replied that “it's good to have young blood among our ranks”.

_ The Elder_. He wasn't even the oldest. Unlike most of them, not all of his hair had turned white; although he appeared to be the one giving the orders. 

One of the charred bodies had been his. Scully couldn't say how she knew. By all accounts, the humans they'd found in the hangar were no more. Their clothes burnt off, their bodies black as coal, their flesh crumbled. Their arms in the air, teeth bared, petrified with fear during their final moments. More statues than men. _ But one had been his. _

_ The Surgeon_, an older Japanese man, by now identified as Dr. Ishimaru. He was the one who'd performed most of the tests on her. He put a tube in her mouth, and a syringe in her belly. He undressed her, penetrated her with a valve and pipes and probes and all kinds of stuff she didn't even want to consider.

He'd been killed a while back, on one of the trains. He got what he deserved. _ What comes around, goes around. _

_ The Smoking Man_. He was the only one she'd seen before the abduction, in Blevins' office, on the day she was ordered to go spy on Mulder. Had it been his idea to assign her? Had the Smoking Man unwillingly shaped the Department of Unexplained Phenomena? Had he personally created the Syndicate's own biggest enemy?

He'd been given a real name as of recently: C.G.B. Spender_. _ She had no idea what his initials stood for – it could be Charles, Conrad, Chris... He hadn't been among the scorched remains.

_ The Woman_. In between all those old men, she vaguely recalled one woman, who'd only been on the train once. And she looked like... well, Scully was probably imagining it. Her hatred for Agent Fowley ran deep. It could've been any woman.

There had been others. Faceless, nameless figures. A couple of them oversaw her on the train; dozens more had turned to ash just hours ago. There were children among them. Their kids and grandkids who'd believed in them regardless.

All of Them, except for the Smoking Man, _ gone_. They literally turned to smoke and dust. Six years of Scully’s life had faded into oblivion... Dark memories of rape, Melissa, cancer, and Emily, left smoldering.

It had been madness.

Scully had needed a drink after that. Could anyone blame her? In the evening, one drink had turned into one too many. She was a lightweight in every sense of the word. She never drank, except for the occasional glass of wine during dinner. So to down plenty of glasses of rum required a certain kind of training she didn’t have.

Getting outside seemed like a good idea at some point. It wasn't _ that _ cold. The sidewalk was moving, though. She was seeing double - it was those damn glasses she needed; she wasn't wearing them - and her legs were feeling particularly weak. She believed she fell once or twice but, well, she was used to picking herself up _ every fucking time _. She never had the chance to sit back and properly process what had happened. To acknowledge what was done to her. She was always on the move. After all, she was chief mate Starbuck who searched for a truth beyond her reach and longed for a man who didn’t love her in the way she loved him.

Nevermind. It was over now. The Syndicate - the whale - had been slain. Not by she and Mulder, although they'd tried. Lord knew how much they tried. But in the end, they weren't even the victors; merely victorious by association. Their contribution had been to drive her car onto the railroad tracks and shoot at the train in the dying light of the waning moon. Of course, that hadn't worked. They'd only jumped off in the nick of time, then watched Scully's car get wrecked, and the train gad about into the night like it was none of their business. 

This sheer desperation to do right in this world, that was them. They were the light in the darkness. Yet they’re surrounded by darkness, at the same time. It was so hard to be the light all the time - especially when the darkness inside of her wished that she hadn't just _ found _Them lying dead in the hangar, but that she'd been the one to personally set them aflame.

Was that her own personal madness, then? 

Why had They done this? For money, power, and influence? To save Their own skin? Was there even any meaning behind all of Their actions? Or was it all just cruelty? Evilness beyond compare?

Scully didn't know. She braced herself for the inevitable impact that she might never know the truth. Nonetheless, tonight, she'd experienced what she didn't know she needed: the biggest weight had been lifted. For the first time in years, at the sight of churned carcasses, she felt somewhat freed from the bounds that had continued to constrain her onto that operating table. It was a magical moment, in a way. Catharsis. It was over and done.

Then what was left? The Smoking Man? Alone, he meant nothing, that much she knew. 

The X-Files? Mulder? There would always be more X-Files, more white whales. And Mulder would always hunt them down. He couldn’t let go. Captain Ahab couldn't either -.

\- Who was she even kidding? Kersh personally made sure that they would never return to the Department of Unexplained Phenomena. 

Then what about her? Was she going to accompany Mulder on his never-ending search, anyway? Or was she going to step out of the goddamn car and live? Could she still live after everything she’d seen and done and felt? Everything she felt... for him. Scully couldn’t deny it. And, she hated it. She hated it, because Mulder would always expect her to join him but he would never join her and —.

Aah, what did it matter? The truth didn't hide at the bottom of a bottle of rum. At least it distracted her from reality.

Scully hopped on and off the pavement, in and out of the rays of light created by the streetlights standing guard on the road; as though it was a game, something she and Melissa might have played when they were kids. In and out, on and off – damn it, she was too drunk for this. She couldn’t manage to keep her balance, but it was _ fun_. Careless, mindless fun.

All fun and games, until she fell, tripped over the curb - or, alternatively, her own feet - and smashed, chin-first, onto the tarmac. She’d stretched out her arms to break her fall.

No, wait... 

First arms, then chin.

Her teeth jammed on the inside of her inner lip, her chin scraped open. Blood flowed freely onto the streets of Georgetown.

And, her legs stopped working too. 

Just her luck.

*

Somehow, between falling and the here and now, Scully had ended up in a police car with a gauze covered in stinging disinfectant pressed against her chin. She vaguely noticed that her pants were ripped, too, leaving her knees grazed and bloodied.

_ Wait, wait_... Scully closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. 

_ Back up. First things first_. Her legs had stopped working properly, so she’d obviously needed a car, _ right_? _ To move_. And, since there were plenty of cars parked down the street, she’d figured she might as well borrow one.

With the most recent thought officially nestled in her not-very-sound mind, she'd crawled towards the nearest car and, for _whatever reason_, triggered its alarm: a beeping loud enough to wake the hounds of Hell, or, at least, every dog in the neighborhood. 

Soon, she was surrounded by cops who'd asked her to blow into the breathalyzer. Then they’d gotten mad at her for the 3.39 per mille of alcohol in her blood, and even more so when she started giggling about it. After asking her if she wanted to spend the night in the drunk tank, one of them searched for some identification and found her trusted FBI badge.

After this, their demeanor had changed. 

“Had a long day, Agent?”

“Yeah. Loing dayy.”

“You’re bleeding. What happened?”

“I fell down ahnd couldn't gget up.” 

They’d then discussed something._ An ambulance, maybe_? 

“Is okey, I'm medical wodctor”, she’d assured them but they’d ignored her. 

Nevertheless, they’d started checking her blood-stained chin and lip, then applied that stingy gauze before getting her into the backseat of their car. 

“My mom told me not to go witlh strangers”, she'd recalled out loud. 

The cops had replied that they would take her to her mom if she could remember where she lived.

“Georgeotwn.”

“Uh-huh. And where in Georgetown?”

But, then, _ a much better idea_. “No, Alexandria. I wanna go to Alexndria.”

“You've got a friend living there?” 

(“Patrick, we're not a damn taxi service. Wouldn't it be better if we took her to the bureau? Fed or not, she's smashed.” – “She could lose her job if we arrest her for Public Intoxication. Cops gotta look after each other, Miguel. Who knows what she's seen today?”).

“Yeah my friyend lives in Alexandria, bzut he's a jerk.”

“Can you tell us where your friend lives? We'll drop you off there. Okay?”

“Two-sixf-three-zero Hegal Place, Alxnaedria.”

*

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

03:12 AM

Mulder couldn't sleep. That, in itself, wasn't new. He was used to insomnia, to the off button in his brain being jammed. But, tonight was worse than usual: he didn't even feel tired. His rational, Scully-side told him that it had been a long day and he should go to bed but he paced through his messy living room instead. His mind turned into overdrive, working at a hundred miles per hour.

_ Could it really be over, then_? Was this the end of their quest, coming to a dramatic close in the El Rico Air Force Base hangar?

The Truth was out there: the Syndicate had made a deal with the first alien colonizers back in the 1940s. His own father, still wet behind his ears back then, had been among the ones agreeing that they would aid them. In return, they were given the key to their survival for when the world would come to an end. 

Bill Mulder had sacrificed Samantha. He turned her over in hopes that this key would provide the answers to stop the spread of the alien virus. All of this was an ambitious and highly secretive government project called 'Purity Control'. 

His sister had been brought to the very same hangar Mulder saw today, on November 27, 1973. That day, Samantha was taken to a far-off planet in the outer rims of space. But the Syndicate had been betrayed. They had found their destiny there, exactly fifty years after they'd first made their deal, when a group of alien rebels opposing the collaboration with humans lied about the date of their departure to said planet. 

Trapped like rats on a sinking ship, those men who believed they could control the world with their schemes, were burned alive. Cassandra Spender, who was as much a victim in this as Samantha, was among them - despite his and Scully's attempts to save her.

He repeated this, over and over, in his head, in an attempt to make sense of this madness. However, so many questions remained unanswered. 

Was Samantha really gone like that? He'd seen her on numerous occasions, cloned versions of his sister. Was the real one still alive, though? And what about the Smoking Man? Scully had said he wasn't among the charred bodies they'd found. Although Mulder couldn't exactly pinpoint why he would take her word for it, he trusted her instincts on this. 

But, then again, should he trust her about Diana, too? Or, was Scully just exaggerating? She tended to become very territorial whenever another woman was involved.

Three loud knocks on the door interrupted his scramble of thoughts. He had no idea who would be at his door—especially, when Alexandria was asleep. He felt like the only person who would be wide awake this late.

“Who is it?” 

He kept his gun ready, just in case.

“Officers Flores and Wade. We found a woman stumbling drunk through Georgetown. She claims that you're her friend.”

Mulder frowned. He didn't have any lady friends, outside of Scully, of course. But, then again, he didn’t think she was the type to get drunk.

He carefully opened the door leading to apartment 42 and, much to his surprise, spotted the two cops holding a petite woman with messy red hair and a scraped chin by her upper arm.

“What the –?” he uttered. “Scully?”

“Mulder, flinalfy! The truth, Muldr, i'ss burned down”, she giggled. It was that same delightful giggle he hardly ever heard, but he was too bewildered to enjoy it.

He watched her stumble, almost trip, but the officers were holding her tightly. 

“She was trying to break into one of the cars parked down 29th Street in Georgetown. She's piss drunk. But, given that she's in law enforcement, I felt bad for arresting her. I know what rough cases can do to you”, the older police officer said sympathetically.

“Thank you. We've just had a rough case, yeah”, Mulder affirmed, thoroughly grateful for the officer’s understanding, yet unable to keep his eyes off of Scully softly swinging left and right, humming, with the stupidest grin on her face and twitching eyes with dilated pupils.

“Are you her partner?” the younger agent butted in, as Scully was apparently trying to pull free. 

“Come on, guyys, is not funmy. I wanna hold Muldrer now”, Scully whined.

Mulder nodded and took her by her arm. She staggered and fell onto his chest as soon as the older officer let go of her. He didn't even feel embarrassed or worried, and definitely not judgmental, when he saw her like this. Just... responsible, maybe? The fact that she'd been drinking, something which she never does (except for that one time she got her tattoo, and _ goodness knows _ that ended badly) must mean that what they'd witnessed tonight had been too much. 

He should probably have anticipated it and stayed with her. This had been as personal to her as it had been to him. In a way, perhaps, even more so.

He thanked the officers again and bade them goodnight. Scully had to be supported inside his gloomy, cluttered apartment, straight to his leather couch. Mulder figured that any attempts at conversation would be futile right now - even though they should really discuss this. All he could, and should do, was remove her shoes, check the wounds on her face, and let her sleep it off.

“Mluder”, Scully said, getting his attention. She clearly had other plans. “This was the worst that could happen.”

“What was?” he played along, noticing that her knees were scratched too.

“The Sydnicate. I _ hate _ them. What they did to me. To Melissa. To Emily. My _ daughter_. I had a daughter and they took her from me.” 

Scully's eyes were closed. She seemed relaxed, as though she could doze off at any minute, but her words were like a stabbing knife.

She was smarter than anyone he knew, but Mulder already realized years ago that this intellect came with a price. As if to balance it out, she suppressed most of her emotions. Scully would always appear calm and collected towards him, but internally she bottled up her feelings. She ignored all of the sadness, fear, and rage - of which she experienced an awful, awful lot – even when he would inquire about it. She would deflect and shrug things off. 

Of course, he did the same thing. He used humor as a way to not actually talk. They should probably work on their communication skills, but it wasn't easy.

And now the alcohol had loosened her tongue. All Mulder could do was listen to those drunken ramblings of thoughts and hopes and fears she would otherwise never spill.

“I know”, Mulder sighed. 

He gently pushed a blood-caked strand of hair from her face. The officers had kindly applied disinfectant to her chin, but – he noticed when he took off her shoes – hadn't spotted her grazed knees, or at least hadn't done anything about it. The fabric of her pants was stuck to the open wounds. 

“I hope these weren't your favorite pants because they're kinda ruined”, he warned her.

Ideally, he would remove them so he could clean those scratches... But undressing a woman who was completely, utterly boozed-up - even though it was with the best of intentions - didn't sound ethical at all.

On the other hand, this was Scully. They'd seen each other naked before. The last time was just a couple of days ago. Then, and all the other times, it had always been strictly professional. Or so he told himself, as he ignored the blood rushing to his cock at the fresh memory of a naked Scully. Why should now be any different?

“It's all just so cruel, Mlulder”, she blabbered, while he contemplated on whether he should do something about those knees or not. 

“I had wished them death but even now they didn't suffr like I do. I have to live knowing that I had a ddaugther I couldn't protec. Knowing that my sister died by a bullet meant for me. And tmororzow is a new day but that never goes away.”

It didn't. Samantha was still out there, too. Maybe not physically but in the knowledge that _ he _'d been responsible for her and she was taken away. That this grief had driven his parents to divorce and to lives filled with unhappiness. She was present in the ever-gnawing guilt that always lingered. 

_ It never, ever goes away. _

As if Scully read his thoughts, she continued to gibber: “And you are always talkign about Samantha annd I'm so sorry but she is dead.” 

Mulder's heart skipped a beat, for a split second, before he realized once more that Scully couldn't possibly know that and that she was currently as wasted as those frat boys who sometimes passed by his apartment and yelled at the parking meter. 

“And we are just _ fucked _. We’re placed as pawns in a mad game that’s sooo much bigger than us, and we think we can make a difference but we cannot. We're just two people. What’re two people gonna do? Idiots who think theyy can be heroes. We're not the victorss here. We never were. They may be gone but we lost everythign already. Everything that matters.”

With each word, Scully painfully revealed the actual Truth. The only truth Mulder never wanted to face. Somehow, it was easier to brood over the Syndicate, the alien rebels, and the colonization than to acknowledge the truth about their place in this clockwork of corruption. They'd sacrificed a normal life – _ Hell _, Scully even more so than him. Her health had taken a serious blow, her chance for motherhood was gone. All because he'd been the one who'd dragged her into this mess – and for what?

They should really talk this through one day; or talk, at least. They had to. Scully had been acting cold towards him for a while now. She’d become more distant, despite his continuous and numerous attempts to try to revert things back to the way they were.

“Scully, don’t be startled, but I'm gonna remove your pants so I can disinfect your knees. Okay?” 

Because he should. He really wasn't going to try anything frisky, and those wounds shouldn't get infected.

“Hmm”, she hummed. A slow smile graced her face, her eyes were still closed. “You do that.”

_ Alright then. He would. _

Slightly nervous, Mulder unbuttoned her black, ripped pants, as she was bucking her hips. He revealed sober, equally black panties, and those slender but strong, pale legs he knew and loved. Back in the day, a long time ago, he found her legs to be too short for his taste, but he’d long since become convinced that they were actually a perfect length. They were more muscled and fit than he would’ve anticipated, too. 

Not that Mulder was paying any attention to their shape, of course. Not when he needed to take care of those ugly-looking scratches. 

“There's some grit in 'em. Sit still, I'll get the rubbing alcohol.”

“No iodine, ioddine stings”, Scully pouted. 

Mulder was stunned she'd even understood what he'd been saying. Then again, the doctor in her had often proved to be more resilient than he would think.

“No iodine, just rubbing alcohol. Alright, dorkus?” Mulder promised. He poked her shoulder, trying to make light of this situation but – dorkus, really? That had definitely sounded a lot better in his head.

He didn't have a lot of medications in the cabinet above his sink. Only rubbing alcohol and Tylenol, both of which Scully would need. Mulder grabbed the bottle of Walmart Isopropyl - he was sure she had better stuff at home, but it would have to do - some cotton balls and –,

\- This could've been hilarious, under the right circumstances. They could've had a fun evening together, drink themselves silly. Not out of horror or guilt, but for no reason other than making a bad movie more amusing to watch. She could've gotten another tattoo. He could've gotten one as well: a giant spaceship abducting a cow covering all of his chest. And they would've forgotten about the Syndicate for a couple of hours, but without feeling miserable about it.

If only she'd come to his place, or he'd gone to hers. 

He sighed and made his way back to his living room, where Scully seemed to have drifted off. Her head was resting sideways, she drooled slightly on her own shoulder. It was for the best, Mulder figured. 

He poured a fair amount of disinfectant onto the cotton wool and gently cleaned those wounds. They were pretty deep and nasty – not on the same level as getting shot in the abdomen, though, so he was sure she would be able to handle it.

However, it did wake her up, just slightly, but enough to be mumbling: “This is nice.”

“Nice?” he laughed. “How is this nice?”

“Hmm, it just is.” 

Despite everything, one quick look at her affirmed that she was relaxed. She was more at ease when lying battered and drunk on his couch, in nothing but her underwear, than he'd seen her in months. 

“Mulder, come closer.”

Against his better judgement, he did. He urged towards her and was utterly unprepared for her hand finding its way to the back of his hair. Scully pushed his lips against hers; her sweet lips, tasting of alcohol.

_ He really shouldn't be letting her. _

They were lush and swollen.

_ Because of the blood. She had another wound on the inside of her lower lip, his tongue was flicking over it. _

Her tongue forced his mouth further open, until she was brushing against his.

_ And he should put an end to it but couldn't. He wanted to savor every minute of this. Of Scully. _

They might not be the victors but Mulder was pretty sure this was what victory must taste, smell, and feel like. It was a pallet of sensations – Scully's lips and tongue, her fingers playing with his hair, his hand involuntarily cupping her face. The smell of alcohol, of a chilly Winter's night, of dried-up blood, and the faint hint of flowery deodorant. The feeling of invisible sparks of electricity that crackled through the air because Scully was doing the very thing he'd been thinking about for _ oh so long _ now.

That thing... She was doing it with her fingers, too. She moved determinedly to the edge of his shirt, grabbed it, and pulled it up until her hands were on his naked chest. In doing so, she channeled the electricity from the air straight to Mulder's body. It made him hard in a second – _ Scully is doing this to me _. 

_ But she's intoxicated and not capable of making thought-through decisions right now. This is wrong. It shouldn't be like this. _

Mulder pulled away. He gasped and already missed that blissful moment their lips had met. What if it would be the last time? He knew that it was for the best, rationally, yet he was shocked when he met the disappointment in Scully's eyes.

“Aww, Mulder. Why did yyou do that?” she whined. For a split second, Mulder figured he should just listen to her pleas and give her what they both wanted.

“You're drunk, Scully. You're not thinking straight”, he sighed. 

_ It really, really was for the best. _

He should be considering himself lucky. Most men would sign up for two make-out sessions with as many different, beautiful women in eight hours. But Diana had meant absolutely nothing. And with Scully, sadly, right now, it meant nothing either.

“Is it because I'm not her?” she continued her rant, catching Mulder off guard. 

“She's vile, Muldr. She manipjulates you. She doesn't love you as much as I do.”

His heart skipped another beat. This time, it wasn’t out of fear, but because he never thought he'd hear her say that.

“She makes things so easy for you. But you told me that my science and ratoinalism saves you. And when I give you just that you ignore me and run off with that bitch.”

Scully was talking about Diana, and - _ God _, he had no idea it ran this deep.

“We almsost kissed and it meant nothign to you.”

It did, but whenever he tried to recreate the moment she backed off.

“But it did to me, you fuckging asshole!”

She put more emphasis on each word, more anger, more venom.

“Ppoor me, huh? ‘_ Ooh, I don’t care, it'ss only Scully’ _. You don't even call me 'Dana'.”

He wanted to shout at her, yell: “Because we're used to not doing that! We haven't called each other Fox and Dana in ages – Jesus Christ, just ask me if you want me to!” 

But not a single word made it passed his lips. 

“And you onlly love me when you think yuo’re gonna lose me.”

Mulder didn't have any retorts for that last claim, not even in his head. It stung, immensely. More than those other words she'd spat out at him. 

It was just blatantly false.

Why on earth would she ever be thinking that?

“That's not true”, was the only thing he managed to whisper. 

Scully closed her eyes again. Mulder leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on her nose, but this time she withdrew. 

“Go to sleep, Scully,” (“_Dana _”), “we'll talk this through in the morning”, he promised her, then pulled the blanket over her grazed chin. 

He softly pushed a strand of hair from her face and, with a heavy heart, retreated to his bedroom.


End file.
